


Thaw

by Xazz



Series: A Cold Heart [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Forehead Touching, Gentleness, M/M, Magic, Necromancy, Warlocks, Witches, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xazz/pseuds/Xazz
Summary: After the necromancer who raised him fell to a sword through the chest Desmond has to figure out how to heal him and make him well again. Not as easy as it sounds when you're undead and don't know anything about magic. And of course there's the part where necromancers are already incredibly difficult to heal to begin with.





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> This sequel was sponsored by R. Idk if they want me to give their real name on the internet. I enjoyed coming back to this AU. It was fun :3

It was just past sunrise when they arrived back at the house down the lane. Desmond stopped Shaun just outside the front door and sprang down from the driver’s seat of the carriage. He opened the door and ever so gently gathered Altair into his arms. Stiffly he walked into the house, almost having to set Altair down to get the key off his person to unlock the door. He took Altair to his own room and first laid him out on his bed. The bleeding had slowed since last night and Desmond opened the buttons of Altair’s shirt and waistcoat to see the mighty stab wound that had somehow made it through the hole in his ribs and probably pierced a lung. He cleaned the wound and it was more gruesome for it. Without the blood it was just a slowly oozing rupture in Altair’s winter pale bronze skin, the skin puckered around the inflamed puncture. Blood shimmered just under the skin but didn’t spill out. Desmond found some bandages in the kitchen and carefully wrapped Altair’s chest to not make a mess of his clothes and bed.  

By the time he was done Altair’s eyes had opened again and were looking at him. In this state Altair was just like one giant doll of perfect dead weight. Desmond didn’t mind. Cleaning done Desmond dressed him in comfortable clothes and tucked him into bed. He sat on the bed with his sire a few minutes nervously. The panic that if he left for a moment Altair would spontaneously die kept him there. Then he rationalized that that wouldn’t happen. Altair hadn’t died on the ride into the city he wouldn’t just die now. Desmond lightly touched the back of his cool knuckles to Altair’s temple. “I’m going to go put Shaun away and go see to your books,” he said. He felt a bit more sane talking it out, even if Altair couldn’t respond.

Desmond got up and did as he said he would. He put Shaun in the little shack of a stable after taking his tack off. Shaun, like Desmond, didn’t need to sleep or eat or drink so Desmond didn’t mind just leaving him unattended. Shaun would be there when he had a moment. He might have to wait all winter for Desmond to tend to him but as an undead Shaun wouldn’t mind. Desmond did at least cover him in a blanket for warmth.

By the time Desmond returned to the house he realized how stiff and jerky his motions were. He was so cold. Down in the basement he could see his breath, meaning Altair was probably cold too, even under his blankets. Distracted from the books yet again Desmond started the boiler, adding coal and getting the fire going to heat the house and the basement. He knew he was doing the right thing. Desmond needed to be warm or he’d have trouble moving and thinking.

Once the heat was up and working Desmond went to find Altair’s books. It wasn’t hard. The necromancer had a bookshelf filled with books and tomes of all sizes, colors, and binding. Desmond pulled one down at random. He leafed through the pages and realized to his dismay that he couldn’t read the words. He tried another. He couldn’t read that one either. He tried several more. He couldn’t read _any_ of them. It was so frustrating he let out a yell. They all seemed to be in the same language but it looked like he’d lost his ability to read when he’d been hanged. Altair said he forgot how to do things he’d known how to do in life because when the brain died it forgot and Desmond had been quite dead when Altair had accidentally raised him. Altair had just been happy he could speak perfectly fine. Unlike little Maria who spoke with a horrible stutter when she spoke at all. He’d just have to learn to read. He could do that. There were plenty of illiterates his age who wanted to learn to read. He was sure there were books in the library he could borrow and teach himself.

That seemed all very reasonable to him. He’d go to the library and be on his way. Better than futilely flipping through books.

Satisfied with a plan Desmond went back upstairs. The house was much warmer now and he went to Altair’s room and sat at his side. He told Altair what he planned to do once Altair finally got his eyes open. He just had to wait until the library opened. He just sat on Altair’s bed not knowing what else to do. He really didn’t want to leave Altair’s side.

It took several minutes but he watched as Altair lifted his hand up to Desmond’s confusion and his brows went up when he slipped a finger into a hole in his coat. Desmond immediately patted himself down and realized he was riddled with stab marks. In his urgency to help Altair he’d forgotten completely about that stupid highway man stabbing him. He couldn’t go out or to the nice library looking like this! People would notice.

Reluctantly Desmond left Altair to go change his clothes. He didn’t have many sets of clothes. He didn’t get dirty like humans did. Didn’t sweat or produce any odor really. It meant his clothes stayed clean and only rarely had to be washed. In fresh clothes he checked back in on Altair. “I’m going to the library, Altair, I’ll be back soon,” he promised. Altair had his eyes closed again, his hand resting on top of the blanket. Desmond ducked into the room briefly to tuck his hand gently back under the blanket. What if he got too hot while Desmond was away? “Altair, open your eyes if you’re too warm, just stay as you are if you’re fine.” He waited. Altair stayed as he was. Relieved Desmond left the house and walked quickly towards the library.

With the sun up now it was warmer and wrapped up in so many layers as he was he didn’t get too cold before making it to the warm library. He asked a librarian where an idiot like him could find books to learn to read. The librarian was very nice and didn’t belittle his illiteracy and showed him to a shelf with several books on the subject. They selected one for Desmond saying it was probably the most basic and if he needed to help to ask. Desmond just thanked him and the librarian left. Desmond opened the book and flipped through it. It seemed very easy, which was good. Start easy and work his way up in difficulty. He picked out another teaching book and looked through it.

He found the alphabet on one page and looked over it. It took his brain several, slow, seconds to realize… this alphabet wasn’t the same as the one Altair’s books were written in. He wanted to scream in anger. These books were useless! As he angrily put the books back he realized of _course_ they wouldn’t be the same. The books Desmond wanted to read were arcane in nature. These were mundane books. He didn’t know why he didn’t think that of course the alphabets wouldn’t overlap.

Furious at his own stupidity Desmond left the library and stomped down the steps to head back home. He was crossing the street, not paying attention to where he was going when he bumped into someone. “Excuse me,” he said. Anger towards himself was no excuse to be rude.

“Desmond?” a woman asked and Desmond’s steps faltered. “Desmond is that you?”

“Uh, you must have me confused with someone else,” Desmond said. The woman was young, pretty, her blonde hair under a hat but elegantly framing her face with a soft fringe. She wore all black of mourning, her dress demure but elegant all the same. She was looking at him like she’d seen a ghost, her blue eyes wide. Desmond had no recognition of her. He had no memory of anything before he’d been hanged _except_ for the reason for his hanging. Everything before that was a blank.

She reached a black gloved hand out to his face hesitantly but didn’t touch him. “This can’t be— you—“

“Miss, you alright?” he asked.

“They hanged you,” she whispered. Desmond froze and it had nothing to do with the cold. Shit. _Shit_ . Altair said if anyone recognized him from when he’d been alive he wasn’t to come home for a _long_ while. Even if he was out with Altair. Altair’s basement was damning and Altair always complained about how much he liked this country and city and wasn’t keen on moving for another decade.

“Heh, no,” Desmond said, trying to brush it off. “You really must have me confused with someone else, miss. You need a doctor? Sounds like you’re in hysterics.”

She grabbed his arm. “How are you here?” she hissed, her blue eyes suddenly intense. “You _died_ ,” she didn’t speak loud enough for anyone else to hear. “They hanged you because of me. You shouldn’t be here.”

Desmond blinked at her. “Who are you?” he asked. He was glad it was still early enough that not too many people were out on the street. Between the hour, the cold, and the fact that they were by the library meant the others walking around were few and far between.

“You don’t recognize me?”

“Miss, I don’t remember anything,” Desmond said, keeping his voice down. “Now if you know something, say something.”

She looked around, realized they were literally nearly standing in the street and then pulled him away. Desmond didn’t fight her as she pulled him down a side street and into an alley. “Do you really not remember me?” she asked once they were away from prying eyes and ears. There were no windows along the sides of the buildings lining the alley, no one to hear them.

“I don’t remember anything,” he said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lucy,” she said. It didn’t ring any bells. “We’re… were sweethearts.” Desmond blinked at her.

“You said they hanged me because of you.”

She looked away, ashamed. “They found out about me and reported it to the church. You wouldn’t let them take me so said _you_ were the warlock-

“I knew about this?” Desmond cried in a whisper.

“Yes,” Lucy nodded. “We’d been together almost five years. You knew all about it.”

Desmond rubbed his eyes. What was it with him and magic users? Did he have a _type_ or something? “Look. I’m sorry. I don’t remember any of that,” he said and watched her heartbreak. Probably the second time he’d broken her heart. He didn’t even know her! This wasn’t fair!

“How are you alive?”

“I’m— I’m not,” he admitted softly.

“What?”

“A necromancer raised me. I did die. I’m undead now. That’s why I don’t remember anything.” Lucy turned away, put a hand over her mouth. She pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I have nothing to give you.”

“It’s alright,” she sniffed. “I know the man I loved is gone. You’re just a shadow.” Desmond didn’t take it as an insult. She wasn’t wrong. He was a shadow of life.

“Wait… you’re a witch,” he said. She nodded, still wiping her eyes a bit. “Will you help me?”

“What?”

“My- the necromancer who raised me. He’s been hurt. Stabbed. Can you heal him?”

She shook her head regretfully. “That sort of healing, to heal a necromancer, requires spell casting. I am not really the spell casting type of witch. I brew potions infused with magic. Things to make you lucky, or make someone love you, or I bottle happiness and sell it by the vial. But healing, real healing, is beyond potions. If you want to help them you need powerful magic.”

“There are books. They’re written in a language I don’t know. _I_ can cast magic, I just don’t know the spells. Can you read them?”

“I might,” she said.

“Please,” he grabbed her arm, “Help me. If you ever loved me, help me. I don’t want him to die a slow death because I can’t—“ he had to stop before he got angry at himself for being useless because all the knowledge Altair had in his basement was worthless to him. “Because I can’t read,” he said.

“I can look at them and see,” she said. “I don’t know if arcane spellbooks are written in the same language as my potion books but I can look.”

“Please,” he begged. She nodded and Desmond nearly collapsed in relief. “Thank you. Now? Can you come now?” Lucy nodded again. Desmond guided her out of the alley and back towards the house at the end of the lane. She rested her hand on his arm as they went.

When they got into the house Desmond took her coat and hung it up for her. He showed her Altair. “This is him then?” she asked Desmond.

“Yes. He was stabbed last night. He had me put a slowing spell or something on him? It slows his heart, stops his blood from flowing, makes him move so slowly,” he went over to Altair who’d started to open his eyes now at hearing people in his room. Altair looked right at Lucy with wide eyes. “It’s okay,” he told Altair gently. “She’s a witch too.”

“I make potions,” she elaborated. “Was never really great at spell casting, myself.”

“She’s going to read your books to me,” Desmond said.

“Shall we?” she asked Desmond. Altair’s eyes had relaxed by now. Desmond nodded and showed her down to the basement. “Wow,” she said, looking all around. “I wish my workspace looked like this.”

“Is it fancy?” he asked, he had no idea.

“Very fancy. Very state of the art. How old is he?”

“I don’t know. He never told me,” Desmond said. “He just tells me ‘old’ when I ask him and never elaborates.”

“Hmm, well with necromancers he could be very old indeed. They age funny. Happens when you play games with death. Now, these books?” she prompted him.

“Yes, yes,” he showed her to the bookshelf.

She immediately took one out and opened it to a random page. “Well, the good news is I can read it,” she said after reading a page. Desmond sighed in relief. “I just have to find the right book and the right spell.” Desmond nodded. She looked at Altair’s full bookcase. “It may take a while,” she said forlornly.

“Please, take the time you need to find the right one,” Desmond said. “Would you like something to drink? Or something to eat? Breakfast maybe?”

“Oh? You cook now?” she asked, teasing him.

Desmond blinked, “I cook all of Altair’s meals.”

“And you haven’t poisoned him yet?”

“Was I so terrible?”

“Atrocious,” she said, smiling, then realized what she’d said and her smile vanished. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get to looking and yes, some tea would be appreciated.”

Desmond left her down there and prepared some tea in the kitchen. They only had the very strong black tea Altair got from the east. He hoped Lucy liked it. He didn’t know how she’d like it so just arranged milk, lemon, honey and maple syrup. While he waited for the water to come to a boil he went to check on Altair. He knew nothing would have changed by now but he was anxious anyway. He smoothed out Altair’s blankets and told Altair who this woman in his house was. That she and Desmond had apparently been lovers and why he’d been hanged for witchcraft when he knew nothing about magic. “Maybe that’s why I can do magic now,” he said to Altair after he finished neatening Altair’s blankets. “Maybe I had been some sort of hedgewitch or something in life and never knew it until I was raised. Seems a bit peculiar otherwise for a normal man to be okay with a witch for a sweetheart otherwise. Hmm?” Altair just looked at him. The kettle started to whistle and Desmond gently touched Altair’s hair before leaving to tend to it.

Back in the basement Lucy was flipping through pages as fast as she could look at them. She didn’t notice him at first until he was right upon her which made her jump. “Desmond!” she cried.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he apologized.

“You’re so quiet, I didn’t even hear you,” she said, smoothing out her skirts a bit.

“Ah. Altair says that too. I don’t breathe other than to talk, makes me quiet. Tea?” he lifted the tray up a little.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. He set the tray down and poured her a cup. She added a splash of milk and maple syrup to her tea and let it cool a bit.

“I take it you haven’t found anything?” Desmond asked, standing to the side.

“I’ve found some minor healing spells. Possibly something he used before he turned to necromancy. Nothing that can heal a necromancer.”

“Is doing so really so difficult?”

“Yes,” she said, still flipping through pages. “They deal in black magic. Very dark stuff. They tamper with the natural order of things. Of any witch or warlock, they above all defy the will of God the most. They bring things back to life and take them from heaven or hell, wherever they might end up and insist their will is greater than God’s, that they know better than God on if something or someone should live or die. It usually goes to their head, drives them mad and they end up being killed by Hunters.”

“By what?”

“Hunters. A type of magic user that kills other magic users if they become too known or endanger the local magical community. The last necromancer I heard of had that happen to them. That was a very long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Six, eight hundred years ago?” She had paused in her rapid page flipping to think about it. “They went mad and were plotting on raising an entire graveyard in Prett to march on the palace and overthrow the king, crown themselves monarch. Hunters found out about him, hunted him down and killed him. Hard to really kill a necromancer.”

“How do you kill a necromancer?” Desmond found himself asking.

“Like most evil things, I’m not saying all necromancers are evil, or that Altair is evil,” she added quickly, “but their magic is evil- you need a silver sword blessed by a holy person or a white witch. Either will work. Only weapons like that can really kill a necromancer. Otherwise, they can naturally regenerate like I’ve heard undead can.”

Desmond was sure Lucy didn’t realize what she was saying but Desmond did. Altair had been gravely injured by ‘random’ highwaymen with a single stab. Yet she said necromancers could only be injured by silver swords. All of the hair on Desmond’s body suddenly prickled. “Excuse me,” he said and got up. He went upstairs and made sure all the windows and doors were locked. Altair said his house couldn’t be seen into by other witches and warlock and he had rituals in the basement that prevented unwanted guests. It still made Desmond nervous. There was _no way_ that some random highwaymen just happened to have blessed silver swords. Or at least one silver sword. Desmond was an ‘evil’ thing but hadn’t been harmed by the sword.

He could just be paranoid. Maybe they’d just happened upon a Hunter and caught them unaware and stolen their weapon and left them. That could be a thing. Altair had been caught unaware by the sword, why couldn’t a Hunter? Desmond went to Altair’s room and sat on the bed. Altair opened his eyes, saw it was him and closed them again. Desmond just sat with him, too anxious to leave.

A while later he heard Lucy calling him. Reluctantly he got up and went back down to the basement. “I found a spell!” she exclaimed.

“You did? What is it?” he went over to her quickly.

“This one here,” she pointed at the book. “It’s a spell that can heal any wound. It’s called Major Regeneration.”

“Okay. What’s the spell?”

“Hmmm. My accent will be terrible but it will suffice,” she said. “ _Sej’arc shar’j ricarjn_.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

Desmond had her coach him the pronunciation a few times. “I think I got it. I’m going to go try it,” and he ran back upstairs. Lucy followed him with the book.

Desmond went to Altair and leaned over him. “We found a spell. Hopefully, this works.” He did like Altair told him. He wanted it. He _wanted_ Altair to be healed so desperately. “ _Sej’arc shar’j ricarjn_ ,” he said. He lifted the blankets and looked under his shirt, peeling back the bandages. The wound was still as fresh as it had been when he’d gotten it. Altair’s eyes were open now and looking up at him. Desmond tried again. Nothing.

“Maybe you need to touch him?” Lucy suggested.

Desmond put his fingers next to the wound and tried again, _insisting_ Altair be well. Nothing. He looked at Lucy. “What else does the spell say?” he demanded.

“I don’t-“ she quickly opened the book up and read the page. “Nothing. It just explains what the spell does. Heals all flesh and sickness, rights ails and bolsters the feeble. It is a powerful healing spell.”

“Hmm?” Desmond looked down. Altair had grabbed the hem of his sleeve. “What is it?” he asked, leaning over to his head. He leaned back when he felt Altair slowly making a motion on his wrist. Lucy came over. “What’s the matter?” he asked Altair.

“It looks like he’s writing,” she said. “Chalk. Where’s chalk?”

Desmond raced downstairs and found Altair’s chalk and slate for when he did maths for powder weights and other formulas and practically sprinted back upstairs. He put the slate down at Altair’s side and wrapped his fingers around the chalk. “What am I doing wrong?” he asked Altair. The going was painfully slow. It took him half an hour but slowly but surely Altair wrote two words on the slate in messy handwriting. “What’s it say?” he asked Lucy.

“More power,” she said. She looked at him. “What’s that mean?”

It took Desmond a minute to think of what it did mean. “When he taught me very basic spells he said it was about will. Overcome the world by insisting your will is greater. But I guess… powerful magic isn’t about will. It’s about power. About having the power to do the spell.” His heart sank. “I’m not powerful enough to cast the spell. I need more power.”

“Oh. Well how does that work?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said weakly. “I don’t know anything.”

Lucy frowned. “I’ll look. Will you make more tea? Lunch maybe?”

“Yes—“ they’d been gone almost a week. Everything had probably gone bad. Desmond knew he had to leave to get things but didn’t want to. He forced his anxiety down. “I’ll bring it down,” he assured her. She nodded and left him there. When she was gone he looked down at Altair. “You must really have a lot of faith in an idiot like me to make you well all on my own,” he sighed. He waited for a reaction. Altair’s lips just curled up a bit at the edges. Desmond left the room and made Lucy more tea and went out to the grocer for food for lunch. He didn’t need to eat but Lucy did. Did Altair need to eat like this? He hadn’t thought of that. He hoped not.

By the time he brought lunch down to the basement Lucy had answers. “It says here that for warlocks to gain power they must master new spells in increasing difficulty, to bolsters their strength and increases their capacity for magically asserting their dominance over nature,” she said book in arm. She warily eyed the food. She said he hadn’t been a good cook when he was alive but Altair never complained.

“Okay. I can do that,” Desmond said. “I can already make a coin rise and create a light and turn it off.”

Lucy grabbed part of the lunch and found another spell book she’d been looking in earlier. “Well, I can give you spells to practice,” she said. Then she stopped and looked at him. “I can come back another day and give you new spells but—

“But?”

“It is very difficult for me to be here, Desmond, seeing you. You’re talking and moving around and looking so alive-

“I’m sorry,” Desmond said. “I did die. Who I am now is not the man you knew.”

“I know. That is what is difficult. I will come by and tell you new spells from the books, but I don’t want to do it often. I’m still mourning.” That part hit hard. He’d only been dead a little over a month. It occurred to him really how horrible it must be for her to see him so worried about a man she didn’t even know and have no recollection of her after years of companionship. He hadn’t even recognized her.

“I understand,” Desmond said. “I appreciate any help you can give me. I’m just a dead thing. I can’t really help myself,” he frowned.

She took a breath and looked away a moment, steeling herself. “Well, I’ll leave you with some to practice and come back in a few days,” she said. He nodded. Lucy read him several spells out of the book. All simple spells. They were building blocks for more complex and powerful ones. Ones that would lead him to that greater regeneration spell. Once she made sure he knew the correct pronunciations and had finished the meal Desmond had made he saw her out, helping her into her coat. It was snowing a little when she left.

Desmond went back down into the basement, closer to the boiler to keep himself warm and awake. She’d left him with three spells and promised to come back in a few days. He practiced without resting for those days. When he figured them out he went upstairs and showed Altair. The necromancer just smiled in his slow way. It was very encouraging regardless. A few days later Lucy came back and told him more spells. She stayed only as long as she had to and Desmond didn’t blame her for wanting to stay as little as possible and leaving as soon as he could wrap his mouth around the words and understood the nature of the spell.

Thankfully in the state he was in now Altair didn’t need to eat but he did have to drink. It led Desmond to opening his mouth and pouring tiny sips into his mouth and gently rubbing his throat to help him swallow as he was. Thankfully it wasn’t much. Desmond mainly hated it because it took away from his practice time to make Altair better. Once a week he changed the barely blotted bandages and Altair’s clothes. He figured even in this state Altair appreciated not being forced to wear the same clothes all the time. The necromancer had excellent taste otherwise and even after a month Desmond had never seen him wear the same set of clothing more than once. He’d also briefly brush Altair’s hair before laying his head back down on the pillow and lightly trace his fingertip along the elegant curve of Altair’s face down the temple, cheek, and line of his jaw.

The longer it went the easier learning magic became. At first it was a struggle because he didn’t know anything and he was fumbling around in the dark but as he learned more spells and more words in the arcane tongue the spells started to make sense to him. It made him understand the nature of the spell Altair had had him cast on him the night he was stabbed. It had been long and seemingly complex but all it was was a slowing spell. But a slowing in parts forcing each part he wanted to slow to do so. The spell itself was actually simple and Desmond practiced similar ones on balls he threw up into the air in the basement. They wouldn’t stop in midair but grind to such a slow descent they might as well have been still. He liked understanding the nature of what he was doing and when he learned something entertaining he’d go and show Altair by example to amuse them both.

When Desmond grew too frustrated with a spell that he couldn’t do he’d go up to Altair’s room and just sit. Sometimes on the bed, other times on the chair he’d brought into the room so he could sit and not bother Altair. It was mainly so he could talk and not just being talking to himself or to Shaun and sound like a lunatic. A spell had made him so agitated once that he’d just gone out to the she’d and finally cleaned Shaun up, ranting at the undead horse about the nature of stupidity and he was it for several hours. Shaun’s coat had _never_ been so clean and shiny when he was done. Shaun had just stared back at him like yes, Desmond was an absolute moron and Shaun was also a horse and what the hell did Desmond expect Shaun to do about this? Desmond kept his complaining to Altair’s room. At least the necromancer seemed amused by them. Probably because they were so _easy_ for Altair at the stage he was in. Usually after a good rant he built himself up some was more determined to do the spell again and did his first try the next time he did it which just annoyed him even more.

He didn’t hit a hard wall in his ability until around the start of spring. Most of the snow and ice had melted by now but Desmond still kept the house warm. The leaves were still bare and the grass dead. He’d been stuck on spell level for a week. Lucy had given him different ones but he just couldn’t do it. Was he at the limit he could do? He didn’t know. He kept trying anyway. Throwing himself against the magical wall of these stupid spells trying to get it to work. In the end he just ended up in Altair’s room. He complained to Altair about his frustrations and when he was done tried the spell again. Nothing. Desmond thumped down on the bed next to Altair in anger, staring at the ceiling.

“I wish you were able to talk to me,” Desmond said, looking at Altair. Altair was capable of speech like this but the sounds came out so slow it was impossible to understand. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.” He sighed and just laid there. He tried the spells several more time over the course of an hour or so, growing more and more frustrated with every try. His brows went up when he felt Altair slowly curling his fingers around one of Desmond’s. If he had a heartbeat it would have jumped. Desmond moved his hand to thread his fingers between Altair’s and looked at him to make sure this was what he intended. Altair just had a patient smile on his face and Desmond suddenly realized they were laying very close. He sat up, feeling very shy all the sudden but didn't let go of Altair’s hand. He felt the tiniest movement of Altair attempting to squeeze his hand in encouragement.

Desmond tried the spell again and to his delight, it worked! He got off the bed to jump up and down excitedly. Altair on the bed slowly smiled wider. Desmond tried the other spells that had been giving him trouble. They all worked. He wasn’t sure why they worked now but he wasn’t complaining. He knelt on the bed and squeezed Altair’s wrist. “I don’t know what you did but thank you,” Desmond said and leaned down to press his forehead against Altair’s gently. Altair closed his eyes and Desmond stood back up. He was so glad Lucy was coming tomorrow! She could give him something harder to practice.

As spring wore on Desmond was able to do even more than before. Lucy said it was shocking how quickly he progressed but Desmond was driven. He wanted to heal Altair. He also had no need to rest so never had to stop practicing for sustenance or sleep. He just stayed up at all hours down in the basement practicing spells, both old and the new ones, to keep himself going. As it started to finally look like spring Desmond told Altair about the changing of the seasons outside. At one point he even put Altair in the chair by the window for a while so he could sort of see. There wasn’t a lot of green around them but you could see a tree on the avenue down the road from the house and every day it grew more and more leaves and then erupted into little white flowers as it came into bloom. Every now and then Desmond tried the healing spell. It never worked. He still wasn’t powerful enough to cast the spell. But he tried. He just wanted to try.

In the middle of spring Desmond was with Altair. He’d just given him water and was in the process of changing the barely blood blotted bandages. His cool hand gently touched the area around the wound. Altair’s skin was soft and he was surprisingly hairless on his chest for a man his age with only some soft, dark, hair around the top of his chest and further down along the line of his stomach. Desmond was doing his very best not to grope but he _had_ a type and apparently that didn’t change when you died. He was literally the worst. He distracted himself from that by thinking maybe now he should try. It had been three weeks since he’d tried last time and Lucy said the spells she was telling him weren’t weak or simple spells. They were complex and maybe not the most powerful in the books but plenty powerful.

Hand lightly against Altair’s chest Desmond went, “ _Sej’arc shar’j ricarjn_ ,” expecting nothing to happen like usual. Instead, he felt the air around him become charged and heavy like a storm was rolling through. He watched with wide-eyed as Altair’s wound closed. First in the middle, pushing old blood up out of the wound and onto his pale brown skin and then the skin stitched itself back together. There was no scar, only perfect flesh. The ionic charge faded from the air. Desmond stared at Altair’s wound then up at the necromancer. Altair was staring back at him, wide-eyed. “ _Haszn_ ,” Desmond blurted out and he watched Altair’s chest rise at normal speed as he breathed properly for the first time in months.

Altair’s hand came up and groped his chest where he’d been stabbed, quickly moving it around to make sure it was real. Then he sat up and checked his back where the entry wound had been. Desmond just sat, staring. Altair turned back to him and before Desmond knew what was happening Altair threw himself at Desmond and hugged him fiercely, knocking him back a bit so he had to catch himself with an arm. His other curled around Altair, holding him against Desmond’s chest.

Once he wasn’t so surprised Desmond could hear Altair’s voice. “Thank you,” he was saying over and over again in Desmond’s ear. He squeezed Desmond tightly and Desmond felt warm all over. He was sure it was because Altair was always so warm. Then Altair leaned back some and to Desmond’s surprise took Desmond’s face in both hands. “I’m so very proud of you. You were amazing,” he said with more gentleness than Desmond had ever heard the necromancer offer him before. If Desmond had the blood to do so he would have flushed. Instead, he just looked away shyly.

“I told you I’d make you well,” he said.

“ Look at me,” Altair commanded. Desmond looked at him, he had to obey. “You were wonderful,” he said. “I honestly expected another warlock to show up when they felt someone fumbling around with magic they didn’t understand and heal me. But you did it all on your own.” Desmond’s heart would have jumped if he had a pulse when Altair leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Desmond’s. “You were so magnificent, even when you failed. You never gave up. No one has ever shown me such dedication. I, literally, owe you my life. Thank you,” Altair said so soft and gently and sweetly like he was telling Desmond so many great secrets. He tilted his head some to change the way their heads were pressed together.

“I wouldn’t have just left you,” Desmond said and sat up. He found Altair’s hand with his and held it. “You’re my Master,” he said.

Altair chuckled. “Yes. I suppose I am,” before leaning back he kissed Desmond on the forehead. “I’m very glad I missed with you now,” he laughed loudly. “First miss in centuries and you’re the best I could have ever hoped for.” Then with that he got out of bed. All the bones in his body cracked and he groaned in delight which made Desmond swallow. “Make me some food, would you? I’m going to bathe.”

“Yes, Altair.”

“Then when I’m done we’re going to work on your pronunciation. Uhg! It is terrible. I was dying while listening to you!” That made Desmond laugh as well and get off the bed. He smiled widely at Altair before going and making him something to eat. He felt so warm and happy all over it was almost like he was alive again as he went into the kitchen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story you should leave a comment. Even if to just say 'I love this story!' I appreciate all of them and let me know you appreciate me too. 
> 
> ALSO you should def visit my [writing blog](http://shotgunsandstars.tumblr.com) for previews, whining, and other gay shit.
> 
> Please do not ask for more, a sequel, or to update. If you'd like any of those things you're free to contact me on my blog for how to sponsor your own sequel.


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